Cracked
by Shannypants
Summary: Set immediately after the Dark Knight. A very wounded, broken Bruce arrives back home to Alfred, who worries that the young man may never again be the same. He has lost the love of his life, taken the fall for a murder, and lost the very spirit that has kept him going. How will he cope? Story will lead up to how we find him in The Dark Knight Rises.
1. Chapter 1

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 1***

**Timeline: Immediately after the end of The Dark Knight…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything relating to the Dark Knight Trilogy; that's all Christopher Nolan, Warner Bros., etc.**

**A/N: I'm not a frequent fanfic writer or a professional, just a bored student with a love of the Nolan Batman films. This is for my entertainment only and hopefully yours as well. I do enjoy writing, so PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW letting me know what you did/didn't like. Thanks!**

BRUCE POV

"_Bruce, deep down you may still be that great kid you used to be, but it's not who you are underneath, it's what you *do* that defines you."_

_A familiar arrowhead pressed against his palm, her scrawling letters… "Finders Keepers…"_

The Batman leaned heavily on the Batpod as it zoomed towards the Gothams docks, a thousand images clouding his mind.

_Harvey's face…Rachel…gone…_

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for an instant, breath catching in his throat, trying to focus on something less overwhelming. Something fixable... He let the whir of the Batpod fill his ears, the night air fill his nose. His only focus should be getting back to Alfred…

_But Rachel…gone…_

In an instant, the adrenaline rush shattered, crumbling the Batman façade with it. Suddenly, Bruce was bombarded with the searing pain of angry dog bites, a burning bullet wound to the chest, and countless throbbing bruises. His brain suddenly felt as if it was exploding, and his vision grew hot and blurred with salty tears. Only on a very base level was he aware that he had just arrived at the docks, the realization affirmed when he felt the Batpod ram into a pole, rocketing him into the air. The wind zipped through his mind, and for a moment, for a _second_ even, he thought he had died...perhaps even wished it so…

Until he felt his back thud squarely on the concrete. There he lay, sprawled brokenly under the starless Gotham sky, tears streaming down his still cowl-covered face. As if out of some remaining instinct, he wearily pulled a small, bat-insignia cell phone off of his utility belt. Pressing speed dial #1, he raised the phone to the side of the cowl, waiting…

ALFRED POV

Alfred had been waiting impatiently in the bunker under the Gotham docks, as he so often did when his master took to his nightly, save-the-world antics. Tonight, he found himself seated nervously in the front entranceway. His fingers tapped anxiously against his teacup, still awaiting his master's return. He listened intently as the wall-mounted television screen fed him headlines such as "The Batman Murders Harvey Dent In Killing Spree," "Joker Captured," and "Gotham D.A. Rachel Dawes Dead in Joker's Fatal Explosion." Alfred, being reasonable, knew that there was certainly more to the first headline; surely Bruce had not violated his only rule. The second brought a vague sense of relief, only to be crushed once more by the last.

_Rachel…_Of course, he had already heard about Miss Dawes's saddening demise. In fact, he had already spoken to Bruce since, had tried to explain to him that his actions had _not _been for nothing. Although Bruce had been evidently grieving during this conversation, Alfred feared that the brunt of Bruce's sadness, the moment when he realized that Rachel was truly gone forever, was yet to come. His thoughts drifted to the letter that rested in the breast-pocket of his tailored suit jacket only moments earlier, the one in which Rachel intended to end Bruce's fantasies…the one in which she chose Harvey Dent. After seeing Bruce in such a broken state, he had failed to expose the letter, so, just a few moments ago, he had concluded that the best option would be to burn it, and he had. No sense worrying Master Wayne with the past. It could not be changed, and would only bring him more unnecessary pain.

A short, high pitched buzz jolted him from his thoughts, and instantaneously, he had torn his cell from his jacket pocket and answered, for only one person and one person only would call him at such a late hour.

But when he heard the voice at the other end of the connection, the phone nearly clattered to the floor.

"Alfred…"

The butler's heart snapped in two, hearing the tears in his master's simple word.

"Alfred…in the lot…outside the entrance…" His master seemed to be gasping for air between fragments. He swallowed, and his own words seemed to come out in a single breath.

"Yes, Master Bruce, I'll be right there sir, just you hold on…"

"…hide the bike first…"

With that, Alfred bolted with impressive speed for a man of his age over to the secret lift that led from the underground bunker up to ground level. The ride up seemed to move nerve-wrackingly slow, but the moment the lift stopped, Alfred moved hastily towards the outer door, attempting to put on a composed face for his master.

Until he saw him.

Laying in the middle of the lot was Master Bruce, cowl still masking his young face from view. Although his heart pulled him immediately to his master's side, Alfred, faithful as ever, headed over to where the Batpod had crashed unceremoniously alongside the garage. With a few series of button pushes and keystrokes, Alfred had set the bike cruising itself down into the entrance that would lead it back underground. In the back of his mind, Alfred vaguely thanks the heavens that the police have been somehow thrown off the Batman's trail; it made the situation at least that more manageable.

Despite his many years, Alfred was soon crouched at his master's side. Bruce seemed to be unconscious, and Alfred has a fleeting urge to see remove the mask, to see the face of the boy who he had helped raise since birth. But now was not the time. Not until they were both safely underground. To his own disbelief, Alfred soon had the younger man draped awkwardly over his shoulder and is half-dragging him toward the entrance, keeping pressure on his bullet wound all the while, and then they are riding the lift back towards safety.

After what seems like a lifetime later, Alfred has carefully hoisted Bruce onto the metal slab that had been included in the medical area of the hideout, and half-supporting the masked head with his left arm, Alfred began to gently remove the cowl. Bruce stirred from the movement, his bloodshot, devastated eyes blinking in confusion. "Alfred?"

Alfred forced a smile. "Yes, Master Bruce, I'm here now." The face before him looked far younger than it should, and as he turned to open a large pack of gauze, he could not help but notice the tear tracks that marked the young man's bloody-stained cheeks. Alfred had only seen such soul-shaking sadness once before, in the eyes of an eight year-old boy, wrapped in his dead father's jacket…Alfred shook off the memory. When he had turned back, supplies in hand, Bruce had somehow managed to sit up, and had begun to tug on his Kevlar armor. A trained observer, Alfred noted that the young man's hands trembled and quaked, unable to find the latch releasing the suit's majority. Stepping forward, Alfred undid the latch carefully, and then took both of the trembling hands gently in his own.

"Master Bruce, sir, we need to get you laying down, sir, and I'll fix you right up…"

Alfred's words caught in his throat as Bruce, who had been sitting on the edge of the slab, eyes fixed unseeingly on an unknown point on the wall, slowly leaned forward. With one arm still applying pressure to his bullet wound, he positioned himself so that his forehead rested against Alfred's shoulder. Looking down in surprise, Alfred saw that young Bruce had closed his eyes, silent tears streaming.

In his shock, it took Alfred a moment, but he slowly raised one hand to the back of Bruce's head, brushing a gentle hand through the brown hair, holding the young man who may as well have been his _son_ close against him. They remained this way for a minute or two, until Bruce's softly shaking shoulders stopped, leading Alfred to wonder whether the young man had finally succumbed to his agonizing exhaustion. But it was Bruce that cut this very thought short.

"Alfred…" It was hardly more than a whisper.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"_Rachel…_" Even softer this time.

Alfred's heart dropped. "I know, sir. I know." Once again, he carded his hand lightly over the brown locks, but the younger man showed no signs of being comforted.

"It was my fault…"

If it were possible, Alfred's heart would have plummeted even farther. Without pause, he placed a finger under Bruce's narrow chin, attempting to raise Bruce's dark eyes to meet his own, just as he had all of those years ago…

But this time, he was met with resistance.

Jerking his face away and keeping his eyes fixed upon the floor, Bruce hunched over himself. The tears had stopped, any sign of weakness buried, leaving traces of anger in their place.

"You can't say…that this time…that _everything _isn't my fault." Bruce gritted his teeth in between words, and Alfred guessed that it was probably a split of both pain and anger. He tried a different approach.

"Sir, we really need to be removing that bullet now. Why don't we just get you laid down?" He moved slowly closer, but as he reached toward Bruce, Bruce pulled back, putting as much distance in between himself and the butler as possible.

"Just go to bed, Alfred," he whispered brokenly. "I don't want…anything."

"And leave you to bleed to death, sir?" Now it was Alfred's voice that dripped anger.

Bruce kept his gaze trained on the floor. "I'll…take care of it."

"Pardon me, sir, but I'm afraid you don't want to. I've seen that look in your eyes once before, from a boy with too much love in his heart. So I apologize, sir, but I refuse to sit here and watch you kill the boy I raised."

With that, Alfred moved closer, antiseptic and gauze ready, and this time, to Alfred's surprise, Bruce did not back away, and even allowed Alfred to help him lay down. Alfred began cleaning assorted wounds that peppered Bruce's chest and abdomen, his patient still refusing to look anywhere but the wall. _Oh well, _Alfred sighed, _at least he is letting me help him. _As he began to work on the gunshot wound, he felt Bruce tense under his light touch. Alfred had used what painkillers and numbing agents he had, but this, unfortunately, was one of the consequences of being the Batman. No hospitals for fear of exposure, just Alfred's limited but sufficient knowledge from the time he had spent as a military medic in his youth.

Bruce's eyes were clenched tightly in pain as Alfred skillfully removed the bullet, and he let out a single strangled cry, panting in pain, indicating that the medicine had not in fact been strong enough, as Alfred expected. It pained his heart to see the boy like this, and he could not help himself from apologizing profusely.

"I am so very sorry, Master Wayne, but we're almost finished. Not much longer at all."

He did his best to sound soothing, but Bruce could not contain another whimper as Alfred stitched and dressed the wound. Finally finished, he fetched an oversized t-shirt and a spare pair of comfortable sweatpants from a nearby trunk and managed to get Bruce into them. He was just about to pull the shirt over Bruce's weary head when he heard his voice, sounding much too small and fearful.

"Are you disappointed?"

Alfred looked up in surprise to see that Bruce had finally shifted his eyes to meet his. He considered what Bruce had said. "Disappointed in what, sir?"

"…in me…I…killed Dent tonight. The Joker corrupted him…he held Gordon's son hostage…no choice…" he trailed off, eyes darkening, and shifted his gaze once more, ashamed.

Alfred reached over as he had earlier, using a finger under the young man's chin to level their gaze. He paused thoughtfully. "Why do we fall sir?"

Bruce raised his eyes, remembering his father's words. He completed the thought. "…So that we can learn to pick ourselves up again…"

Alfred gave his first real smile of the night. "That's right, sir." He held the chin even with his own, wanting more than anything that the young man before him absorb every word. "So, to answer your question, sir, I couldn't be more proud of you if I tried. I whole-heartedly believe you would never do anything other than the right thing." He straightened. "Now, Master Bruce, I do believe we should start picking ourselves back up. And that starts with getting you to bed."

Much to Alfred's slight amusement, Bruce answered with a yawn. He allowed Alfred to help him unsteadily to his feet, and together, they headed along the path that led up to the penthouse. They were both silent on the way up, Bruce still looking desperately sad and lost, more along the lines of a wounded animal than a masked vigilante. They took their time as they finally reached the master bedroom, the last of Bruce's energy spent.

While Alfred pulled down the comforter, Bruce worked on easing his aching body onto the mattress. Once he had succeeded, Alfred tucked the covers around him, vaguely musing that he had not done so in years, in fact, since shortly before Bruce had left for his seven-year stint in Tibet. His thoughts, for the umpteenth time that night, were interrupted by that quiet, broken voice, that voice that he would give anything to give happiness.

"Alfred?"

Alfred was half-turned, preparing to leave for the night.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

And in that moment, aged blue eyes and young brown locked. Alfred could sense from across the room that the young man's thoughts had drifted back to Rachel. He knew the trains of thought that would haunt him that night. So, without another word, he crossed to where the armchair rested in the corner of the room, slid it purposefully alongside the large be, and sat down, draping a light blanket over his lap. It was going to be a long night.

A peaceful silence, and then that mournful voice once more…

"Thank you, Alfred."

***Please Review if this is worth continuing! ***


	2. Chapter 2

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 2***

**A/N: Heavy on the hurt/comfort, I know, but there's never enough Alfred/Bruce out there Remember, I'm not a professional. As always, please review!**

BRUCE POV

"_This is where she died…"_

_Harvey's voice seemed to echo through his mind. His head throbbed, his eyes glued to the gruesome, raw half of Harvey's once charming face. When Harvey's bullet pierced his chest, he stumbled, but didn't cry out, his only goal to save Gordon's son. Passing Gordon's son back up to his father…his fingers slipping…landing alongside Harvey's broken body. The image of Harvey connected to barrels of gasoline…knowing that Rachel was as well…the explosion, the wretched thought of her burning…had she screamed?_

Bruce snapped awake, sitting up quickly but instantly regretting it. He felt his sutures pulling taught and every bone in his body screaming in resistance. Each breath seemed to be coming much too quickly, catching in his throat before he could take control. His eyes burned with hot tears, and his hands moved to cover his ears, which were pierced by shrill screams. He shot frantic glances around the room, struggling to gain a solid sense of his location. Suddenly his only urge was to vomit, and before he knew it, he was heaving the few contents of his stomach onto the floor of the master bedroom.

_Rachel…Rachel, he had to get to her, before…no, no…_

"NO!"

Surely the walls were collapsing, he was on the floor, and there were hands on his back, trying to help him up. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, she was _everywhere_. The screams were growing louder by the second and he could do _nothing _to escape them…

ALFRED POV

At long last, Alfred had managed to settle down for the night, after what seemed like hours of watching Bruce stare emptily at the off-white ceiling. The man looked lost in thought, but eventually, his fatigue had overcome him, forcing his eyes lightly shut. Content for the moment, Alfred had allowed himself to drift off…

"NO!"

Alfred was on his feet the instant he heard Bruce's cry. His heart froze as he saw that the younger man, no, the boy, was no longer on the bed. Bruce has somehow slid to the floor, screaming with his head down, ears blocking off sounds only he could hear. Alfred was at his master's side in his instant, approaching as carefully as one would a lost dog.

"Master Bruce! Master Bruce!"

But Bruce was still screaming, completely ignoring the gentle hand Alfred had set on his back as he crouched beside him. Alfred swept his eyes over his charge, searching for any outward causes of his pain. The boy had broken out in a cold sweat, and his downward cast eyes were red and tear-filled, and he seemed to be hyperventilating. He had to get Bruce off this floor. He noted the small pool of vomit, and recognizing the futility of his attempts, moved to grab some cleaning supplies from the hall closet as well as a washcloth. Wetting the washcloth in the adjoined bathroom sink, he bent down once more, approaching just as slowly. He tried again to reach out to Bruce, to whisper some words of comfort, but the creature before him was in an entirely different world.

Inching closer, Alfred reached forward, putting a hand on either side of the younger man's face. He ignored any resistance and began wiping the tear-tracked cheeks with the cloth.

"Master Bruce," he whispered, "Bruce."

Slowly the screaming died off, and on some level, Bruce seemed to realize that he was in familiar arms, on his own bedroom floor rather than in whatever hell he had thought himself in. He had broken into a fit of racking coughs, still struggling to get even a lungful of air. Alfred supported him behind the back, patting gently as it shook.

Much as they had been earlier, Bruce's eyes were shut, and his head leaned against Alfred's shoulder. His breaths still took on something of an erratic quality, but at least the frantic cries had stopped, leaving stunned silence in their wake.

"Shhhhh, Master Bruce, deep breaths," Alfred soothed, trying to mask the nervousness in his voice. "Deep breaths, sir."

The boy responded with more coughs, each of his hands grabbing a fistful of Alfred's suit jacket, as if clinging to it for dear life. The tears had not yet ceased, but with his head on Alfred's chest, Bruce began to mimic Alfred's breaths, slowly allowing Alfred's presence to calm him as it always had.

Alfred took these steadier breaths as perhaps his only chance to ease the man back into bed. He managed it, but it wasn't easy, for Alfred had already strained himself supporting Bruce's muscular body several times tonight. Ensuring that the pillows were comfortably positioned behind Bruce's head and that all was calm for the time being, he grabbed the cleaning supplies and made quick work of the mess Bruce had left on the floor. As he did so, he could sense Bruce's gaze on his back. He had known the boy long enough to know that at this particular moment, he was probably drowning in embarrassment, shame, and as always, guilt. Guilt for waking Alfred, guilt for needing help, guilt over letting his parents down, letting Harvey down, letting Rachel down, letting Gotham itself down…

After all was cleaned and put away, Alfred resumed his place at his master's bedside, taking his spot in the armchair. The older man was not surprised in the least to see Bruce awake, eyes still moist, staring blankly at the ceiling. Extending a gentle hand, Alfred lifted up the edge of Bruce's tee, praying that in his movement he had not torn his stitches. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that they had held.

It was only now that Alfred sat back in his chair, watching Bruce, trying to imagine what horrors he had seen in his sleep. He knew that much of what he had seen of the news had been untrue: no way had the Batman _murdered _Harvey Dent in cold blood. He contemplated quietly, then after several minutes had passed, decided to break the silence, seeing as neither of them were likely to get back to sleep. It was now already past three.

"Another nightmare, Master Bruce?" He knew that Master Bruce had taken to nightmares from a young age, usually surrounding the night of his parents' death.

"You could call it that."

More silence, but Alfred knew better than to draw it out. "You know, sir, when bad things happen, even to the very best of us," he hesitated, searching for the right words, "Well, sometimes, sir, we need to…talk about the things we've seen, in order for these things not to destroy us…"

"I appreciate it, Alfred." His words were spoken in a whisper, his stare still hovering somewhere on the ceiling. When no further comment was made, Alfred took this as a decline to the offer.

"Very well, then. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"Just…don't leave." The voice cracked slightly.

"Never, sir," he answered, "Never."

**A/N: These first two chapters are kind of introductory-ish, more plot-driven stuff is on the way …Update is coming soon.**


	3. Chapter 3

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 3***

ALFRED'S POV

As Alfred entered the kitchen, he noted the sun peering in through the curtains, the morning dew glittering across the expansive lawns of Wayne Manor. _How ironic, _Alfred mused, _that such a beautiful day can be tainted by so much suffering._

Burying such saddening thoughts, he began to prepare some light breakfast for Master Bruce-just some toast and scrambled eggs, something light for an uneasy stomach. The boy had finally fallen back to sleep, albeit a fitful one, and had remained so for about an hour. Not enough, but most definitely a start. Bruce had woken up only moments before and had headed to the bathroom, unintentionally waking Alfred with his movement. Alfred had slipped out of the room before Bruce returned. While he waited for the toast to pop, he heard slow, limping footsteps enter the room. He heard Bruce sit down, but did not turn immediately to face him; instead, he waited until he had loaded up the young man's plate and poured him a tall glass of juice.

Alfred closed his eyes, preparing himself for the sight behind him. He inhaled deeply, reminded himself to smile, and turned.

"Good morning, Master Wayne," he beamed.

"Morning, Alfred." Still little more than a whisper. The face was deathly pale, gaunt as any he had ever seen. Dark circles cast a shadow over haunted eyes.

"I've prepared a little breakfast."

Bruce looked up, his lips ghosting a smile. "Not so hungry this morning, Alfred."

Alfred sighed. He had expected as much. Removing the plate from the table, he replied. "Very well, then, sir. But I must insist you drink your juice."

This seemed good enough for Bruce, who downed the glass in a gulp and began to rise.

Alfred raised a hand. "If you would wait just one moment, Master Bruce."

When Bruce sat back down, Alfred began, "Sir, Miss Dawes's funeral service is to take place tomorrow morning," he hesitated, watching as Bruce visibly shrank, seeming to collapse in on himself, "And Mrs. Dawes was hoping that you attend."

"Send her my regards, Alfred," the odd cracking had returned to the voice, but Bruce quickly worked to correct it, replacing it with a much more guarded tone. "I won't be attending."

"Master Bruce, if I may say so, it would likely do your heart good to go...we both know how much Miss Dawes meant to you. What she meant to both of us, ever since the two of you were children running up and down these halls," Alfred spoke cautiously, waiting for the time bomb to go off.

And it did.

Bruce shot him a glare. "DON'T you assume that you know _anything _about this, Alfred. I _can't _go."

"And why not, sir?"

"I just can't. You _know _why." Bruce reddened with anger.

"I do, sir, and I can only imagine how hard it will be for you," he broke off, waiting, "but you must go."

"No." No anger now, just a cold, emotionless resolution. A wall, as if that simple word could block out everything.

Alfred made it a point to catch the young man's gaze. He swallowed, knowing what could result from his next remark. "I do know, sir, if nothing else, the Dawes family served your parents at this very manor for years. You owe them your presence at the least."

SLAM.

"How _dare _you," Bruce hissed. For a moment, Alfred honestly believed that Bruce would hit him. "HOW. DARE. YOU." He pounded his fist down on the table, rose from his seat as quickly as his injuries would allow, and ascended the stairs.

Alfred turned on his heel and headed after him, unabashed. He was well acquainted with Master Wayne's sometimes volatile temper. In fact, it was interactions like this that characterized much of Bruce's adolescent years. Leaving the room was Bruce's equivalent of restraint, escape, even, before he said anything or did anything he would regret. It could get tense between the two of them, certainly, but he also knew that sometimes, it was the only way to get through the Wayne stubbornness.

He knocked twice on the bedroom door, then pushed it gently open. Bruce sat at the edge of the bed, hand clutching his abdomen. He showed no awareness of Alfred's presence. Alfred leaned heavily against the doorframe, watching the broad shoulders as they faced away from him.

"Are you very sore today, Master Bruce?"

"I can't do it, Alfred. I just _can't_."

"I think you doubt your own strength, sir."

"I can't do it alone."

"And what if you didn't have to?"

Bruce turned, staring at Alfred as if frozen. His face flickered with several emotions, morphing too quickly for Alfred to identify. "Thank you, Alfred."

**A/N: Sorry this is isn't very long, nor very good, but I should have the next chapter ready in a day or two…Up next: Rachel's funeral/aftermath.**


	4. Chapter 4

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 4***

BRUCE'S POV

Bruce stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fastening the last button of his suit jacket. The suit looked pretty sharp, he had to admit, but when his eyes fell upon his face, he froze. His eyes looked glazed over, red and sleep-deprived. Last night had been as restless as the night before, only this time, he had not asked Alfred to stay with him. His thoughts had nearly driven him crazy. Somewhere in the past few days, his skin had picked up an unhealthy grayish shade, and his face looked narrow and childish. And his cracked lips…_he could feel Rachel's lips on his, the one and only time she had kissed him…_He turned away quickly, sickened by what he saw.

He snorted in disgust. _No one would ever believe this is the face of 'the Batman.' _If there was a day his cover would be blown, it certainly wouldn't be today.

Today, he was expected to portray Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire extraordinaire. A close friend and former employer of the Dawes family. It was the only socially acceptable thing to do, he knew that—all part of the act. But today—today, it made him sicker than ever. Because she would have waited for him. To imagine a life past Batman, a life past everything…it was too much. He shook the notion from his thoughts. All of that was gone now.

_Dead._

ALFRED'S POV

Alfred had made Bruce a delicious-looking breakfast this morning, as he always did, but once again, Bruce refused to even touch it. But Alfred had simply smiled and offered to help the younger man up the stairs. It was obvious that his injured knee was bothering him a great deal, despite the brace Alfred had put on it. But Bruce had been adamant that he didn't need assistance getting ready, and Alfred chose to respect his wishes, however reluctantly.

The car ride to the church was silent—so silent that every few minutes, Alfred found himself glancing at the rearview mirror, as if to reassure himself that Bruce was still there.

When they arrived at the church, Alfred took a look around. It was a quaint little chapel, surrounded in lush greenery, and already, he could see Mrs. Dawes up ahead. He swallowed. As he opened the back door of the Rolls, he could already sense Bruce's uneasiness coming off of him in waves.

"Are we ready, Master Wayne?"

Bruce did not respond verbally, but he allowed Alfred to help him to his feet, leaning heavily on him. Alfred could not say whether the cause was more emotional or physical, but the younger man was struggling to stay vertical. He was moving like one much older than himself; Alfred could feel the knotting stiffness in the muscled shoulder beneath his hand. They approached the small funeral party side-by-side, Alfred thankful that he had gotten Bruce this far. Just as they were about to take their seats, Mrs. Dawes approached them, dabbing her eyes with a tissue and causing Bruce to cringe visibly. Alfred tightened his grip on the arm ever so slightly, reminding the boy that he was there.

BRUCE'S POV

"Bruce, dear, I'm so glad you could make it," Mrs. Dawes wrapped him in a warm embrace, and in that moment, he forced a sad smile and let himself rest in her arms. This woman had been the only motherly figure in his life since age eight; she had baked him cookies, given hugs, and even invited him to family parties. Just seeing her reminded him of how much he had missed her.

She took him gently by the arm, pulling him closer. The sparkling eyes, the relaxed way her hair fell upon her shoulders…it was just too much. An older version of the same face that haunted his dreams each night. He could feel himself shift uncomfortably, and noticed that Alfred's gaze was analyzing his face carefully, undoubtedly searching for any sign of discomfort. He gave Alfred a tiny nod, indicating that he was all right, even though standing for this long had made every inch of his body scream in protest. He had some vague sense of Mrs. Dawes talking to him, tearfully whispering how she had always known how special Bruce had been to Rachel, had always known what a wonderful friend he had been...and he could only give a polite little smile and nod, thanking her. A few others greeted Bruce during this exchange and were met with the same response; Bruce doubted he was capable of much else.

Then he and Alfred took their seats amongst the rest of the small gathering, and Bruce's eyes fell upon something that they had not yet seen; Rachel's casket, an elegant mahogany-colored box set behind the priest's podium, obscured by layers upon layers of countless red roses. He leaned his arm more heavily against Alfred's, hoping that the man didn't mind. It appeared that he didn't. Alfred's hand was soon resting lightly on Bruce's, which was gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had gone stark white.

He made it through half of the memorial service, watching the priest's mouth move but not once really hearing a word. His focus was fastened unblinkingly onto the empty casket, on the box that should have contained Rachel's body.

He could feel his heart rate increase, the priest's words becoming further garbled in his ears. _Rachel's body…_

_What had been left of her? No body recovered… _Gruesome images flashed through his mind and he gagged. _Pieces of her, buried under the rubble of the warehouse, fragments too small to be found_. He suddenly realized that he needed to leave, sooner rather than later. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The sickening smell of funeral flowers and perfume and the sight of the empty casket were bearing down on him, and he was more than ready to explode. He gulped, trying to appear calm.

"Alfred?" he whispered, still staring directly ahead.

"Yes, Master Wayne?" Alfred turned to look at Bruce, blue eyes lit with concern.

"We need to leave. Now."

Bruce left his seat before Alfred could respond and shuffled his way discreetly from their position at the back of the crowd. He was limping badly, but trudged on without thinking towards the Rolls. His only notion that Alfred was following him, dress shoes clacking along behind him. With the limp slowing him down considerably, Alfred was close behind him, but not quite able to catch him. Bruce reached the Rolls, pulled open the door, and practically fell into the back seat. He ran aching fingers through his hair and clenched his eyes tightly shut, willing his heart to slow down.

As he had suspected, Alfred was only a few steps behind him. But rather than hearing the familiar sound of the car starting, Bruce instead heard his own door opening, and hesitantly looked up into Alfred's weary face. And though he would never admit it, Bruce could feel his breath steady just the tiniest bit upon seeing the man.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Let's go home."

Alfred nodded, silently moving to the driver's seat. Neither spoke for the entirety of the ride back to Wayne Manor, but Bruce gave Alfred a grateful nod as the older man helped him to his feet. Once they had reached the penthouse, Bruce took a seat next to the window, the same seat, in fact, that he had sat in when he had first told Alfred of Rachel's death, when Alfred had told him that to save Gotham, there would certainly be a few casualties.

_Casualties…_

He waited for Alfred to leavethe room, probably to prepare him something to eat, before rising and hobbling towards the residence's makeshift Batcave.

ALFRED'S POV

Something like this was exactly what Alfred had feared. When he saw Bruce's gaze practically glued to Miss Dawes's casket, he knew it could only get worse. Surely, Bruce would be exerting every ounce of his self-control right now; one look at the boy told him that he was on the verge of screaming his heart out.

He had been hesitant to leave Bruce alone, but he knew that deep down, the poor boy must be hungry. Alfred had to get him to eat something, at least a sandwich. It had been four days now, since he had last seen Bruce eat a proper meal, and he knew he still hadn't slept. So, after making Bruce a plain turkey sandwich, he returned to the parlor, expecting to find Bruce still lost in thought. Instead, an empty chair greeted him.

His stomach lurched. He had a feeling he knew where Bruce would be headed…

BRUCE'S POV

Bruce sat on the floor of the Batcave, staring up at the caged suit before him. It had become a symbol, just as he had dreamed, but not at all as he had intended. To his mind, the very cowl itself was the face of Gotham's suffering; a destructive force rather than its savior.

His thoughts returned to Rachel for what must have been the hundredth time today…_What had gone through her mind?_ She had probably hated him; thought that he had chosen to save Harvey over her. But then, that was exactly what the Joker had wanted, and at the end of the day, the Joker had won, despite his capture.

His brain hurt. His skull literally seemed to throb with guilt, pulsating with rage at what had been taken from him. His parents would be ashamed. He had become a monster. A murderer. Hell, Alfred _should _be ashamed, but he loved Bruce too damn much to show any inkling of it.

Bruce reached up and grabbed a batarang from its velvety display tray. He spun it in his hands, smoothing his fingers over the edges. Sharp. The metal felt cool against his hands, and even better against his wrists. He hesitated for little more than a second, eyes looking up at the eyeless cowl before slowly dragging the batarang across the delicate skin of his wrist. He waited, watching the red droplets begin to snake down his arm. _Finally._

He closed his eyes, hoping that this time, his plans would succeed; slowly, he let the soft darkness envelope him…

**A/N: I am personally not very fond of this chapter; I very well may rewrite it, so expect this to be a little rough. As always, please review, and expect an update soon.**


	5. Chapter 5

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 5***

ALFRED'S POV

Alfred raced down to the cave as swiftly as his old body would permit. He called out to Bruce, not really expecting a response. His eyes scanned the room's perimeter until he found his target. A gasp escaped his lips: there Bruce lay, leaned against a pillar, bleeding and broken.

He ran to the medicine cabinet, grabbing the suture kit, gauze, and towels, his mind whirring at dangerous speeds. Moments later, he was at the boy's side, clearing away as much blood as possible. The pulse was weakening, but still relatively strong. Alfred made no effort to stop the hot tear-tracks that coursed down his cheeks as he set the boy's head gently in his lap.

"Bruce," he whispered, patting a clammy cheek with his palm, "Bruce, please."

He began to clean out the deep gashes that criss-crossed the boy's wrists, cursing himself for ever having left him alone in the first place. "Bruce, how could you do this?"

He began to suture the cuts with skilled hands, and Bruce stirred, confused brown eyes suddenly going dark and all too alert.

"Alfred?!" Bruce was swiveling his head from left to right, as if trying frantically to understand something. "No, no, no…get out Alfred! Leave!" His voice was low, tinged with the very Batman-like growl.

BRUCE'S POV

Bruce was furious, his bloody arms attempting to scoot as far away from Alfred as possible. _Why couldn't he just leave him alone?_ He lashed out, ignoring the agony in his arms, not to mention throughout the rest of his body. It was if all of his rage had boiled to this point; he had intended to die, he should have died that night, should have died sprawled out, shot down next to the corrupted corpse of Harvey Dent. He swung out his hate at Alfred, desperately wanting to hit something. Anything to make it stop. To make _everything _stop. He wanted to knock the concern out of Alfred's face; anything to make him leave. He grabbed the batarang that he had used on his wrists and sent it whizzing at the many panels of display screens designed by Lucius Fox. He heard the shattering of glass and saw a shower of white-hot sparks out of his peripheral. _Good, _Bruce thought, but it wasn't enough. Taking the rest of the batarangs from their case, he hurled them in various directions around the cave, watching as more and more of the room's belongings fell into ruin. Only serving to infuriate more, Alfred made no move to stop him. His injured arms too weak to throw a forceful punch, he settled for grabbing the old butler's suit jacket and shoving him back hard.

Alfred stumbled back, but returned to Bruce's side in an instant. The butler grappled gently with the bloody fists that worked so hard to throw him off, managing to place a hand on each side of Bruce's head. Bruce tried to summon a greater force from his muscles, but Alfred had somehow bested him in this drained, weakened state, because no matter how much he thrashed his head or pulled at the wrinkled hands, he was trapped in Alfred's unrelenting grip.

"Bruce, look at me," Alfred said sternly, holding his head in place, "Stop this. I need you to look at me, Bruce."

Bruce wanted to scream. Those eyes, that look of concern…they made his broken heart crumble. He wanted to run, to run until Gotham was a universe away, but he knew his legs were in no shape to oblige. He paused, struggling to breathe, and Alfred seemed to take this as a surrender, pulling the boy back towards him and reaching for the suture kit.

As a last-ditch effort to escape, to get Alfred to simply let him die, he banged his weakly-clenched fists against Alfred's chest, growing increasingly frustrated when the older man didn't react. Of course he didn't want to _hurt_ Alfred; he just wanted him to leave, to get as far away from Wayne Manor as he could. Bruce was toxic; anyone he got close to would surely end up dead. He continued to pound away at Alfred's chest until he realized that his strikes were little more than tired swats, and gentle hands took both of his. He submitted, following the hands with his eyes. Hands that had held him when he broke down after his parents' death, hands that had tended his every wound for the past twenty years—hands that would never betray him, or do anything to hurt him-

"Bruce, look at me." This time it was a command, given in a decidedly stern tone that Bruce had not heard from the man since his childhood. "Please let me help."

Bruce relented, gaze locking with Alfred's. His heart quickly filled with shame. Alfred's eyes were red and tired and Bruce was certain that he had been crying. "Alfred—" He cringed at the way his voice shook.

Alfred began stitching the arm, cutting into Bruce's words. "No apologies, sir."

"But…"

"No buts, sir."

Bruce quieted for the moment, watching Alfred work with glassy eyes. He had learned to tune himself out to the pain long ago, and showed little sign of distress, although his every bone ached terribly. He was sure his eyes had turned to lead; they fell shut and he had to blink hard to lessen the sleep-deprived blurriness. He wasn't sure when Alfred actually finished, nor how long the two sat there on the cave floor—before he knew it, Alfred was easing him into a chair in the dining room and setting a small bowl of corn flakes in front of him. Bruce shot him a curious glance and Alfred smiled encouragingly, taking a seat across from him.

"Just a few small bites, sir. Then we'll get you to bed."

It was somewhere in the last few minutes that Bruce had realized the depth of his exhaustion. The funeral itself had been enough to wipe him out, and his stomach literally churned at the thought of food, but the hopefulness in Alfred's eyes was enough motivation for him to down half the bowl. His hands shook as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, from blood loss or weariness or ragged emotion he couldn't quite tell. Yet he ate. After all, Alfred had been so patient with him, had put up with him even after this. Any sane man would have quit, but Alfred was still there, picking up the pieces of his heart and soul that seemed to crack off daily.

When Bruce had finished, Alfred smiled once more, clearing away the dish and thanking him for trying. Bruce could only nod in response, and he blearily followed Alfred slowly up the steps, letting the older man keep a steadying hand under his elbow.

Bruce limped over to the bed unassisted, eyes fluttering shut as his body made contact with the mattress. As he remained in a sitting position, he was vaguely aware of his shoes being slid off, and of his shirt being unbuttoned and carefully replaced with a tee. He flinched as the thin material grazed his chest wound.

He lay down, curling up on his side as comfortably as he could. He heard footsteps once more as Alfred crossed the room to get the lights, and found himself holding his breath. Surely Alfred wouldn't leave him alone after this afternoon's events? But then, Alfred needed his rest, too_. But the nightmares…_

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he heard the familiar sound of the leather armchair being slid over next to the bed. He rolled over to face Alfred, who was already leaned against the side of the chair, a small pillow tucked under his neck.

"Alfred?" he whispered into the darkness.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"I think I really have learned my limits..." he hesitated, "…Guess you're entitled to as many 'I-told-you-sos' as you'd like."

"Not today sir." He could hear the sadness dripping from Alfred's every word. "Today, I truly don't want to. Now get some rest."

Bruce gulped, the image of Rachel's empty casket still burned to the insides of his eyelids. "You know I won't be able to," he added wearily.

Alfred didn't respond, but instead reached over, taking one of Bruce's hands lightly in his. Bruce closed his eyes, silently praying that the nightmares would grant him a night off.

And they did.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, both master and servant slept soundly, the worries of Gotham out of both sight and mind.

**A/N: A big thank you to my reviewers! I love it! Thanks for all of your support; I will keep this story coming for a while longer : )**


	6. Chapter 6

**CRACKED**

*******CHAPTER 6***

**A/N: Thank You to all of my lovely reviewers! Thank you for following so faithfully, and I apologize for this chapter, because it fell a little short of my own expectations.**

ALFRED'S POV

The next morning, Alfred woke feeling uneasy, the events of the previous day rushing back to mind. He sat up gently, his back having gone stiff from sleeping in the oversized armchair. Surveying the room, he allowed a small smile to light his face when he saw not only that Bruce was still in bed, but that the boy was still fast asleep, Alfred's hand clutched closely to his chest.

Alfred's heart swelled—Bruce had slept at last. Not willing to end the miracle prematurely, he leaned back and rested his eyes; a few more moments of peace couldn't hurt. He let his mind drift to cheerier times—days when dark-hair and freckles ran through the house, both young and old, filling the halls with the laughter of a father and son…days when the rays of light that flooded the main hall of Wayne Manor seemed to ignite the beauty of Mrs. Wayne's décor, not illuminate the warmth that the manor desperately lacked. But then, Alfred considered, he had always been considered a welcomed member of the Wayne family. He had never, _ever_, been disregarded or condescended, as he knew many others in his line of work had. On the contrary, following the deaths of the Mister and Misses, he had become Bruce's _only _family—his sole caretaker, in fact.

And now, here he sat, still watching over the boy after all of these years. He continued to soak in the silence when he felt a sudden tightening of the grip on his hand.

His eyes snapped up, ready to jump into action to do whatever he could to make Bruce as comfortable as he could, but one look at the boy told him all he needed to know. Bruce was clearly fighting something, or someone, perhaps, trapped in the depths of his mind. The too-pale face drained of all remaining color, and the hand that Alfred held in his own quaked in fear.

Alfred leaned in, "Bruce," he whispered, "Bruce." Frightened eyes shot wide open, slowly escaping whatever had terrorized them just moments before. _Well,_ Alfred thought dismally, _at least the nightmares waited until he had gotten some sleep._

"Alfred?"

"Yes, sir," he shifted forward to make sure he was clearly within Bruce's range of sight. "Right here."

Bruce had closed his eyes once more, but Alfred did not miss the boy's almost imperceptible sigh of relief. Alfred took this as his cue.

"I thought we might just have you rest here at home today, sir." Surely, Bruce's body needed a break. He waited for an answer, before adding, "How are you feeling today, sir? We should get those bandages changed this morning. But first, I'll prepare us a little something for breakfast."

"Alfred—" the solemn voice whispered. The eyes were open now, aiming that same empty gaze at the ceiling.

Alfred squeezed the hand gently and rose, "No arguing today, sir." He mustered a smile. "I'll see you downstairs."

Bruce did not respond, nor did he show any recognition of being spoken to. For a moment, Alfred doubted that he had heard him, but caught himself before repeating. He had known Bruce long enough to know that hovering or badgering him during a time like this would only cause the boy to distance himself further.

It was another twenty minutes before Alfred heard the limping footsteps descending the main stairs of the huge penthouse. When Bruce had not arrived immediately, it had taken every ounce of the older man's self-control not to rush back up to the master bedroom and check whether or not Bruce was still alive. But he knew better than to make the boy feel watched. He was still flipping pancakes when Master Bruce entered and took a reluctant seat. Alfred noted that his hair was wet; he must have showered.

In an attempt to brighten the mood, Alfred drew the curtains wide, ushering in the beautiful weather. He then prepared two plates, setting the first before Bruce and the second before himself, hoping that the boy might take some interest in what was on his plate.

No such luck.

As Alfred took a seat, he could see the still-glassy quality to Bruce's eyes, which had shifted to stare blankly at the plate before him, as if seeing right through it. Alfred waited with the patience of a saint, but Bruce continued to stare vacantly at the table, as if unfamiliar with the need to consume food.

"Master Bruce?" Both of their plates were surely getting cold.

Hollow eyes rose to meet Alfred's, then resumed their empty routine, scouring each and every grain of the mahogany table and leaving both plate and silverware untouched. Astounded by the utter blankness in his charge's expression, Alfred rose and walked around the table. Picking up the fork, Alfred carefully slipped it into an unsteady hand, wrapping limp fingers gently around the handle. When the hand did not resist, he returned to his seat and began to eat, watching.

BRUCE'S POV

Blinking, Bruce's gaze finally seemed to acknowledge Alfred's presence, and he began to alternate between looking at his plate and glancing at Alfred, as if preparing to be scolded as he would have been so many years ago. Instead, he met a quiet smile.

"A few bites, Master Bruce, nothing more," Alfred coaxed, before adding, "For me, sir…"

Sure enough, this had been incentive enough for Bruce to take a few tentative bites. Truthfully, he didn't feel at all like eating. Food would keep him alive and well, which was a far cry from the fragility he felt. He had vaguely hoped that a shower would help rejuvenate him, physically at the very least. But still, everything felt wrong—his mind and body were tired beyond belief, and his only motivation to do anything was to oblige Alfred, or to spare him any more pain than he had already caused him.

ALFRED'S POV

After Bruce's slow bites had grown minutes rather than seconds apart, he guided Bruce to the living room couch, gently laying the boy back. Alfred turned on the big screen TV that adorned the room, hoping that this might hold Bruce's attention while he cleaned his wounds. But Bruce's eyes remained the same, dull and sorrowful…

With gentle hands, Alfred removed and replaced bandages, noting any areas around which Bruce flinched or tensed up. But other than this and the steady rise and fall of his chest, there was little else to show Alfred that Bruce was in fact still alive. The eyes moved between Alfred and the TV screen, though seemed to comprehend neither.

He helped the boy sit up against the side of the couch, covering him with an afghan that Mrs. Wayne had made to match the earth-toned hues of the room. "Would you like to watch a movie, sir?"

No response.

He sat on the couch next to the boy, feeling the cushions sink beneath his weight. "Bruce?"

Still no response. Alfred began to flip through channels, hesitating now and then to see if Bruce would show any particular interest in a program. As he flipped past the midday news, Bruce sat up. Alfred cringed; it was a special on the Batman…

"Alfred, turn it back." The tone was suddenly clipped, almost harsh.

Images of the Batman flooded the screen, followed by cuts from swarming police chases, complete with teams of angry dogs. As gunshots rang out on the screen, Bruce flinched visibly, thoughts obviously fixed on that night. The pair sat in silence, Alfred's heart heavy. The young man before him was not the Batman, he mused. Nor was he Bruce Wayne, Gotham socialite elite. He was what was left of Alfred's Bruce, the broken shell of the boy that Alfred had grown to love as his own. So lost in his own thoughts, too closed-off to recount the horrors of all he had seen. But Alfred vowed to wait, to have the utmost of patience with the boy, in the hopes that someday, he would return.

He just hoped it would be soon.

**A/N: Little bit of writer's block these last couple of days, but I think I know where this is headed now. Next chap: Bruce is going out for his first nightly escapades since Rachel's death. But where is he headed? Update coming soon.**


	7. Chapter 7

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 7***

**A/N: Again, thank you for all of the kind responses to this story! They make my day! Anyway, here we go again. I hope Bruce doesn't seem too out-of-character in this chapter.**

_Three Days Later…_

ALFRED'S POV

The past three days for Alfred had taken on much of the same pattern as the day after the funeral: wake up, spend the day making Bruce as comfortable as he could, try to get Bruce to eat and drink enough to sustain him, care for his wounds, and sit with Bruce until he fell asleep, usually longer. Each night brimmed with nightmares, and days were filled with the same vacant stares. But Alfred was persistent; he kept the penthouse bright and lively and always greeted his master with a smile. And although it seemed to be having little effect on the younger man, Alfred delighted in the little things; just earlier, in fact, Bruce had agreed to play a game of cards with him.

Now, Bruce lay curled up on the couch, napping peacefully. It was almost nine o'clock, but the weather was rather chilly and gloomy for an early August day, perhaps explaining why both of them were so lethargic. Alfred soon felt his own eyes growing heavy, drifting off…

BRUCE'S POV

Bruce waited with baited breath for Alfred to fall asleep. After what could only have been a few minutes of feigning sleep himself, he struggled to his feet, limping towards the stairs. His footsteps were well-practiced and noiseless; one advantage of his training in Tibet.

Once he was on the main level, he took the lift to the makeshift Batcave under the docks.

He was going out.

In the Batcave, he suited up in the all-black attire that he recalled as being all too typical of the League of Shadows, stashing a jet black ski mask in his pocket for good measure. As always, he could not risk being recognized as Bruce Wayne. Besides, the Batsuit would be far too dangerous; not only because of his status as a wanted man, but because of the occasion on which he had last worn it. _No, _he thought, and he forcibly pushed any inkling of Rachel and Harvey from his mind. _But then, that's exactly why he was here, wasn't it?_

He knew it was crazy. Honestly, he knew that if Alfred ever found out that he had gone, he would be in for a long lecture…about…"letting go," and…"moving on." He could practically hear the words on Alfred's tongue. But Alfred had no idea what he was going through…

As he mounted his motorbike and strapped on a helmet, he mused for what seemed to be the hundredth time just how hard it would be for someone to believe that he was Bruce Wayne. His felt bruised; he didn't need a mirror to know that his eyes were sunken and dull, his skin pale and sickly. Actually, as he revved up the bike, he considered how refreshing it was to feel the night air, to be outside of the penthouse at last. He usually treasured his down time with Alfred, a day to let his injuries rest, but today, it had felt unbearably confining. Bruce's only thought had been of the warehouse, the place where Rachel had died.

And so, without a second thought, he headed there now.

Deep down, he knew he was being irrational. No good could come from going there—no closure, for there was not any closure to be had. Yet he felt compelled, compelled beyond anything he had felt since her death…

So he went.

Before long, he was only blocks away, and he could feel it. His entire body throbbed, his breath caught, and his heart felt as though it would tear itself out of his chest. Gotham had dissolved around him. _This is where she died._

He had been there that very night in cape and cowl, had crouched among the wreckage in despair as fire squads hosed the flaming wreckage. But it had been different then. The shock was still fresh—the Joker still on the loose, tearing Gotham to shreds. Bruce had had something to distract him, to hold the self-loathing temporarily at bay. Not to mention Harvey, or whatever it was that Harvey had become.

Now, he approached cautiously, parking the bike a safe distance away and donning the ski mask. Not that he was particularly worried about being caught; the warehouse was near the edge of the city's business district, which, at this late hour, was relatively inactive. He could hear gravel crunching under his boots as he neared, his nostrils assaulted by the stench of singed debris. Seconds later, he was ducking under barriers of caution tape.

The next minutes seemed to pass in slow motion. He surveyed the damage, sneaking around the explosion site for anything, any indication of why he might be here. His heart twisted painfully and suddenly, he was on his hands and knees, ignoring the shards of glass and rock stabbing through his gloved palms. His mind spun, hands digging tirelessly for any sign of her, any sign that she had been here. He felt crazy, his thoughts racing like a madman's. _What if she hadn't died?_ _What if she was trapped beneath the wreckage? No. Emergency personnel would have found her._ But he failed to shake the thought.He began to lift broken beams, muscles straining. Despite his injuries, he was suddenly feeding off hope—a desperate hope, a lunatic's hope, it seemed, but a hope none the less. _What if she hadn't even been here? Sure, he had heard her voice when he had mistakenly found Harvey, but what if the Joker had lied about her location all together?What if she had been somewhere else? _He tried to use logic, to reason with himself that this was impossible. But his hands kept searching, picking up anything and everything, stinging eyes scouring the sea of rubble.

Until…

…he found it.

It stopped him in his tracks, froze his heart.

He was numb, breath held, cradling it in his hands.

A watch.

At first he didn't believe it.

Diamond-studded and golden, a few stones obviously blown out by impact…faded by filth, a cracked face illuminated by the streetlights…and two hands, perfectly intact, ticking as if not a thing had changed in the world.

He cannot be sure how long he knelt in the ruins, nor can he be certain when he removed his right glove, smoothing bloody fingers over the cracked surface…he could have spent hours, _days_ even, watching the hands tick steadily around each minute.

It was not until the frigid rain interrupted his vigil that he tucked the watch deep into his pocket, safely wrapped in his glove, and struggled to rise to his feet, discarding the ski mask among the wreckage. What good would it do anyway? His bad knee was about to give out, he could feel it, and he was more than soaked to the skin by the time he had reached the bike.

The rain was coming down in torrents when he returned to the docks. He guessed that it was now early morning, judging by the darkness of the sky, but time was lost on him. He parked the bike and stumbled up to the penthouse, hot tears and rain blurring his vision.

It was only when he reached the main door that he realized he didn't have a key. Never before had he needed one.

An unexpected wave of panic rushed over him, and he pounded his fists on the door as hard as he could. He had to get to Alfred. Now. He _needed _Alfred.

"Alfred!" He paused, waiting. "ALFRED!"

He heard footsteps quickly approaching, and something in his mind told him he should stop pounding, that Alfred was on his way, but he couldn't. He continued hammering his fists on the door until it swung open.

"Master Bruce!" Startled blue eyes that bled concern tried to catch his, but he pushed his way into the entrance hall, throwing the door shut behind him. A second later, he was sliding down the closed door, his knee shifting painfully out of its socket.

"Alfred," he seemed to gasp the name with each exhalation, "Alfred…Alfred…"

In his own ears, the name sounded more like a choked sob with each repetition. "Alfred…Alfred…"

Bruce had drawn his good knee towards his chest, his hands tangling in his hair. He carefully pulled the watch from his pocket and held it as though his life depended on it.

And then Alfred was on the floor with him, smoothing his hair back, rubbing circles on his rain-soaked back with gentle hands.

"Shhh, no sir, I'm right here," Alfred whispered, "I'm here, shhhhh."

He felt Alfred pull him closer, and for once, he didn't resist. He felt gentle fingers prying his balled fist open, revealing the watch. _No, no. _His brain tried futilely to deny it, no matter how hard he tried. One look at Alfred and Bruce saw something register in the wise eyes. Bruce could tell that he knew. _He knew._

He didn't pull away when his drenched head was tucked under Alfred's chin, close to the man's chest. His whole body was wrenching now, wracked with sobs that were far beyond his control.

"My f-fault, Alfred…" he sobbed, "I c-couldn't save her."

His head was still spinning, leaving him dizzy and sick; he clung to Alfred like an anchor, trying to focus on the soothing words the older man whispered into the top of his head.

"Hush, now, I've got you." Alfred held him gently, rocking ever so slightly. "Shhhh…"

Bruce gasped, trying to control his breaths. "I c-can't do this, Alfred. I…can't live with this."

"Shhh, sir, I know that you can." Alfred's own eyes were teary as he carefully removed the remaining glove, taking the two glass-encrusted hands lightly in his own. "And I'll be right here living it with you."

Bruce kept his eyes shut, willing himself to relax as he breathed in the scent of Alfred's cardigan. It smelled of peppermint; it always had. He gradually began to calm, though he still shivered from the cold and his eyes still poured tears.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Alfred reaching into his breast-pocket, removing a clean handkerchief. Alfred dabbed the cloth across Bruce's face, wiping away both tears and rain.

"That's better." Alfred smiled. He put a hand on the back of Bruce's shoulder. "What do you say we get you dried off, sir?"

Bruce took a shuddering breath, suddenly realizing how cold and wet he was, and allowed Alfred to pull him to his feet. He leaned heavily on his friend, silently praying that he wasn't hurting him by making him support his weight.

He remained quiet as Alfred sat him on the leather sofa—didn't say a word. He remained quiet as Alfred helped him change his wet clothes, as the old man toweled off his dripping hair, and as he helped him hold a steaming cup of green tea. He even remained quiet as Alfred carefully removed the miniscule glass shards from his hands with a pair of tweezers.

His eyes were still moist when he realized that Alfred was kneeling in front of him, hands on his knees. He could feel Alfred's gentle gaze watching him, as if expecting something. As try as he may, Bruce could not bring himself to meet Alfred's eyes.

His cheeks felt warm again and he wiped away more tears. Finally, he forced himself to look up. "Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

He sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand, the watch still clutched in the other. He looked up at Alfred with red eyes. This time, he made sure to catch Alfred's gaze.

"You know," he swallowed, trying to get the words out, "I didn't kill Harvey Dent…"

**A/N: Please read and review! A massive thank you goes out to all those who have reviewed already : ) Next Chapter: Bruce opens up to Alfred about what really happened the night Harvey died and the Joker was caught. Also, how close will Alfred come to revealing the contents of Rachel's letter? Stay tuned…**


	8. Chapter 8

**CRACKED**

***CHAPTER 8***

"You know," he swallowed, trying to get the words out, "I didn't kill Harvey Dent."

BRUCE'S POV

He hesitated, waiting perhaps for a response, but Alfred gave none. Instead, the older man took a seat in an armchair across from him, watching patiently. Bruce took this as a sign to continue.

"The Joker must have gotten to Harvey when he was in the hospital. When I saw him, he was corrupted, a murderer. Completely intent on avenging Rachel…he took Gordon's family as hostages…he was going to kill Gordon's son. Then, I told him to leave the boy alone, to point the gun at the people responsible for his pain…" he suppressed a shiver and let out a shaking breath, "…he shot me, and I deserved it. I _am_ responsible for his pain. R-Rachel never would have…" he still couldn't bring himself to use that word. "Then Harvey shot himself in the head and fell over the edge of the building. I tried to go after him, but I ended up falling as well.

I…I told Gordon that the Batman could take the fall for this—that I could be whatever Gotham needs me to be. And then I ran, as fast as my body would let me, and they chased me. Everyone. Police, dogs, helicopters…" He looked down, shuddering.

ALFRED'S POV

Alfred listened to Bruce's story intently, inwardly relieved to finally know the details of what had happened that night. He was even gladder that Bruce was finally letting him in, letting someone comfort him in his pain. Hearing Bruce's cries had brought tears to his own eyes, and he wished beyond anything that he could offer a permanent solution rather than just a shoulder to cry on. However, Alfred could not shrug off the layer of guilt that seemed to permeate the air.

_The letter._

He sorrowfully recalled the letter that Rachel had left with him, in which she declared her love for Harvey Dent. Just before she and Alfred's final goodbye, she had requested that he deliver the letter to Bruce "when the time was right."

And now she and Harvey were both dead, and Master Bruce in poorer shape than ever.

_No, _he told himself, _now is not the time. _He heavily suspected that the boy would not be able to bear the truth just yet. He looked over to where Bruce sat in silence, staring into the darkness.

_No. _His mind was set. He knew that when the terrible day did come, Bruce would hate him for it; loath him for shattering the very fantasy that he had spent so much time nurturing. But now was not the time; any more pain and whatever pieces were left of Bruce's heart would surely crack.

So, Alfred sat in silence as well, regretting the past and dreading the future.

**A/N: Short, I know, but I wanted to get through this little in-between section because I am about to progress time a little bit. **Next Update: Set three months after Rachel's death. We will see what transpires at the housewarming party at Wayne Manor. Thanks again for all of the support and please stay tuned!**


	9. Chapter 9

**CRACKED  
*****CHAPTER 9***

BRUCE'S POV

It had been three months today.

Three months since everything he had ever wanted became the very thing that he had lost.

Bruce looked in the mirror, straightening his tie, and noted the utter sickly look about his face. Tonight was the official housewarming party for the newly-rebuilt Wayne Manor, and it would mark Bruce's first public event since Rachel's death.

It had been Alfred's idea, of course, perhaps in some vague hopes of deterring the media frenzy surrounding the reoccupation of the "legendary" Wayne household. For the past three months, the press had been desperate to catch any glimpse of Bruce, any glimpse at all, for he was rarely seen. Headlines claimed that he had finally lost it, had become a relusive, eccentric billionaire with the worries of Gotham far from mind.

Bruce let out a humorless laugh. As if anyone held Gotham closer to heart than he did.

So, in an effort to put an end to both Alfred and Gotham's concerns—he would open his home to hundreds of guests, wine them and dine them, and end the night with a brief appearance. A simple way to keep everyone reasonably content.

He made him way down the main staircase with the utmost of caution, and could not help but imagine what it must have looked like to the many partygoers. It echoed a scene they had witnessed all too many times—billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne descending the grand staircase, dressed to the nines, champagne glass in hand. An overly-confident smirk should be playing on his lips as he strode. Then, he would stop near the center of the room, raise his glass, and clink the side of it, drawing all eyes to him. He would say something along the lines of "I would just like to thank all of you _lovely_ ladies and gentlemen for taking the time out to enjoy a night here at the manor, and more importantly, for helping make Gotham the shining light that it is."

But tonight, the man that walked down the steps was not Bruce Wayne, arrogant socialite—he was just Bruce. He leaned more heavily on the railing than he normally did, and the smile he sported brought no light to his eyes, but rather seemed to be worn like a mask. And despite his well-tailored suit, no one failed to notice the billionaire's haggard complexion, the way his eyes seemed trained on the ground.

As he reached the ground floor, he distinctly heard the nervous chatter and the curious whispers die down. All eyes had turned toward him, leaving him feeling markedly more exposed and vulnerable than usual.

"Mr. Wayne!"

"What a fabulous get-together, Wayne!"

"Oh, how _are_ you, Mr. Wayne! We've missed you up at headquarters these past few months!"

He met all of these comments with a polite nod and an "Always my pleasure" or a "Couldn't be better, thank you," but it was forced and agonizing. He grabbed a glass of wine and headed over to where Alfred stood at the far end of the ballroom, serving drinks to a table full of well-dressed woman, all of whom seemed to be wildly entertained by Alfred's jokes, if their delighted giggles were any indication._ Alfred, _Bruce would have chuckled if he remembered how, _always the gracious host._

Alfred greeted him with a light pat on the back. "Ah, Master Wayne! Good to see you among the living, sir!"

Bruce replied with a grin, turning to the ladies. "I hope you are all finding everything satisfactory. How is everyone this evening?"

A red-headed, middle-aged woman with a gaudily large diamond on her left hand spoke first. "Oh, absolutely splendid, Mr. Wayne! It is you we should be asking. No one has seen you in months!"

Bruce suppressed a grimace. He had expected that this would come up. Taking a swig of wine, he reached over and grabbed a plump shrimp off one of the platters. "My, Mrs. Anderson, you must try one of these. Alfred, where did we get them?"

But Alfred shot him a subtle glare. "Part of the catering, sir." Bruce cringed at the butler's tone, which rang of _don't-you-dare-pretend-you-didn't-know-these-questions-were-coming._

"I see." He turned, deciding to move on to the next section of the group. "Well, if you'll excuse me ladies…" He bid the women a good night, and headed to the next table.

The following half hour was spent in this manner: greet, shake some hands, smile, and avoid uncomfortable questions. Whenever his absence was mentioned, Bruce skillfully changed the subject; when asked about his limp, he dove into a lengthy tale about the spelunking accident he had suffered just two weeks past. Bruce wove his way in-and-out of the crowd like a professional, welcoming everyone and forgetting no one: businessmen, congressmen, and even a few high-ranking members of the GCPD. Finally, he made his way to one of the farther tables that he had not yet greeted. As he approached, he realized that it was occupied by several men from Gotham Courthouse. He turned a second too late.

"Hey, Mr. Wayne!"

_Oh, shit._

"Mr. Wayne!"

Bruce raised his eyes to meet Mr. Williamson, a controversial young attorney whose aim was to take Harvey's place as DA. He had seen the dark-haired man on the news, and had labeled him almost immediately as manipulative and beady-eyed. Now that he stood before him face-to-face, he could see that he had been right. The man had rallied against the Dent Act and had made countless statements against everything that Dent had fought for; Bruce had background checked the guy using Fox's equipment—Williamson was a former henchman of Falcone's, though his "official" records showed nothing of the sort. Certainly the last thing Gotham needed. Guarding his own facial expressions closely, Bruce extended a hand to greet the man.

"Mr. Wayne," the man repeated, "I'm Henry Williamson, the new district attorney." He took the proffered hand. "But I'm sure you knew that already."

Bruce smiled smugly, words tumbling out of his mouth before he had thought them through. "But of course. I mean, who doesn't know about the man whose trying to step up to fill Harvey Dent's footprints?" He squeezed the hand a little too tightly for a simple handshake.

"Ah. Why so coy, Mister Wayne? But you do throw such a wonderful party. Although a heard that your last party was a bit of a, err, flop." He chuckled, and Bruce grimaced. His last party had been a benefit for Harvey Dent's campaign—the Joker had crashed it, terrorized Rachel, and Batman had ended up jumping out of a window to save her.

He replied coolly, "Yes, it was a bit of a fiasco." He tried to withdraw his hand, but the other man's grip was painfully firm.

"A fiasco, you say," Williamson added, still chuckling, "I would have called it a disaster. I mean, from what I have heard, one of our attorneys was thrown out of a window! If it hadn't been for the Batman, I suppose, Miss Dawes could have lost her life!" Williamson took a long pull from his glass, eyeing Bruce for a reaction.

Bruce swallowed hard, taking another sip of his drink—two could play at this game. "Was there something you wanted, Mr. Williamson?" Whatever this guy's angle was, it was definitely time for him to leave.

"Just to express my deepest sympathies, Mister Wayne. I was recently informed through a friend that Mr. Dent and Miss, um, Dawes were very…_special_ friends to you." Again, he seemed to be awaiting a response, but was met with nothing more than slightly reddened cheeks and gritted teeth. "Aw, well, I see this is still a bit of a sore spot. I should get going." He reached into his suit's inner pocket. "Let me just leave you my boss's card…in case you want to give him a call." Bruce's eyes went wide as a court jester playing card was held out before him. _No…_

Something went off in Bruce's head. It was a blur of fury, an explosion of rage. Before he even realized he had moved, his fist made contact with the right side of Williamson's jaw.

"Fuck!" the man staggered back from the blow, a few others from his table rising to assist him. But Bruce was fast, knocking the man to the ground hard. Then, he was down where he had fallen, pummeling with both fists.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred was behind him, struggling to grab at his arms, but he continued to pound his fists into the man's ribs, stomach, anywhere he could reach. Williamson tried to throw him off, but stood no chance.

And then, a different voice, albeit no less familiar. "Mister Wayne!"

Bruce started, half-turning to see who had managed to restrain his arms. It was Commissioner Gordon.

The seasoned cop pulled him carefully to his feet, and Bruce instinctively knew better than to pull away. He could hear Alfred apologetically explaining to the majority of the shocked guests that unfortunately, the party was over. He thanked them for coming and suggested that Mr. Wayne just had a few too many drinks in his system-that he could get a bit hot-headed when intoxicated.

An air of confusion and irritation infected the room as the many guests began to filter out.

"…as if burning down the house wasn't enough…."

"His father would be ashamed…"

"…can't control himself…"

"…never coming to one of these again…"

Meanwhile, Gordon shot a glare at the bloody-nosed man on the floor, one hand resting on the holster of his gun. He then turned to the other officers that Bruce had greeted earlier, gesturing them toward Williamson. "Cuff him."

Williamson began to sit up, shaking an enraged finger, "I'll press charges—"

"You'll do no such thing!" Gordon spat back, "Because I just heard every damned word you said!" The officers proceeded to cuff Williamson and drag him from the room, his joker card fluttering to the floor.

Gordon turned his attention back to Bruce. "Come on, son." He gave the arms a gentle tug, and didn't let go until he had eased Bruce into a chair in the empty back corridor, just outside of the ballroom.

"Are you all right, Mister Wayne?"

Bruce kept his eyes locked on the floor, not wanting to look up. When he didn't respond, he felt a hand on his knee and saw that Gordon had knelt before him. He shut his eyes tight. _This can't be happening…_his mind raced, whizzing through his memories…_it was just like when…_

As if to complete the thought, Gordon reached over and folded down the lapels of Bruce's suit jacket, heavily echoing the way he had wrapped Thomas Wayne's jacket around a shivering eight-year-old...Bruce imagined that Gordon must be remembering the same moment, picturing a child before him rather than a grown billionaire.

Gordon spoke first, breaking the uncomfortable silence, his hand still resting on Bruce's knee. "Hey, Wayne, I'm really sorry that happened. You never should have had to hear that."

But Bruce didn't dare look up. His eyes were moist with tears that threatened to fall. "Thank you, Gor- I mean, Commissioner. I appreciate it."

To Bruce's dismay, Gordon had not failed to notice the tears, and being the kindly man that he was, reached over to lay a hand on Bruce's shoulder.

"Hey," this time, the man waited for Bruce to meet his eyes, "I remember how close you and Miss Dawes…how close you and Rachel used to be…I'm truly sorry for your loss." And in that moment, Bruce truly believed that perhaps no one shared in his grief as deeply as Jim Gordon. He had been there that night as well, had arrived at Rachel's location just moments too late…

"You have no idea how much that means to me, Commissioner." He forced a small smile, vaguely noting how ironic it was that Gordon had helped him once again, even if this time, neither of them were on the job, and Gordon had no idea he was Gotham's dark knight. He blinked back more tears.

Gordon squeezed his shoulder awkwardly before standing. He hesitated in front of Bruce, looking as if he wasn't quite sure where he was supposed to be. "Listen, son, I should probably go check and make sure they get Williamson down to the station without any issues…and get a total restriction on the Joker's visitors down at Arkham. Is there anything I could do for you before I go?"

"If you could please fill Alfred in and let him know I'm in here—"

"Sure thing. Take care of yourself, Mister Wayne."

"Thank you, Commissioner."

With that, the man exited, and Bruce was left with his thoughts.

_Williamson…sent by the Joker…using Rachel to hurt him, again. When would it end? Batman or no Batman, darkness never stopped tormenting him, stealing away the ones he loved…_

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft thud of Alfred's footsteps.

"Master Bruce?"

He sighed wearily. "Yes, Alfred?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"I know. No more parties?"

He could practically feel Alfred's despair. He knew that Alfred wanted nothing more than for him to be better, to be happy, and that he had meant tonight as a way to reintroduce Bruce back into a more normal life.

But Bruce had never been meant for a normal life, had he?

"No more parties, sir…No more parties."

**A/N: Not too sure about this one, so please let me know what you thought! Thanks again to all this story's followers/reviewers, etc. More coming soon!**


	10. Chapter 10

**CRACKED  
*****CHAPTER 10***

****A/N: To all of my readers who have asked me whether this story had been discontinued, I'm sorry it took me so long to update! **** I moved away to university this fall, so life has been super different/hectic. But this story is still very much alive, and even if this chapter is a bit weak, I promise more drama is on the way! **** Thanks for reading guys!**

ALFRED'S POV

It had been six months today.

He had shown every kindness, had been understanding and gentle without fail.

Yet Bruce was no better. Ever since the housewarming party, he had remained almost exclusively in the East Wing of the manor, and had taken to locking himself in his study for hours on end, particularly whenever the maids were around.

Only Alfred had the key, and only recently had he realized the significance of this—that Bruce fully intended to lock the world out, both mentally and physically, letting only Alfred in.

But tomorrow, Alfred hoped, might be different. Perhaps Master Bruce would smile, laugh even. He sighed—_how long had it been since he had seen Bruce's boyish grin? _

When he arrived at the door of his young master's study, the door was locked-as he should have expected, he supposed. It was nearly one in the morning, and he had just come to insist that his master be getting off to bed. _No more of these late-night brooding sessions. _So, he drew the key from his pocket and turned, creaking the door open ever so slightly.

"Master Bruce?"

No answer. He cracked the door open the tiniest sliver. "Master Bruce, may I come in?"

He eased the door further, peeking in to see only darkness. He tried again. "Bruce?"

Nothing.

Opening the door revealed an empty room. "Bruce?"

Alfred was moving down the hallway, listening for any sign of where Bruce might have stowed himself away. "Bruce?"

He had searched the entire East Wing, and still nothing—he could feel his heartbeat quickening—surely Bruce wouldn't have done anything to hurt himself? _Not again_.

_But what if…No. Surely Bruce would not have ventured outside of the east wing—he hadn't in ages. _The west side of the manor was where the Wayne family had once resided, all of those many years ago.For Bruce, even in its reconstructed state, it was a hallowed ground, a sacred place not to be entered. _But…nothing had been exactly normal as of late…_

It was not until he passed what was once young Bruce's playroom that he saw a thin sliver of light creeping out from under the bottom of the doorframe. _Finally._

"Master Bruce?" He didn't bother to knock this time, just tentatively pushed the door inward, as if fearful of what it may reveal.

But rather than receiving an answer, Alfred was met with a few hitched breaths. Bruce was sprawled flat in the middle of the dimly-lit room, cheek resting against the floor, on a black area rug that replicated the one that he and a young Rachel Dawes used to cover with toys once upon a time. He looked stiff and awkward, as if his location had not been intentional.

"Master Bruce?" He took a hesitant step forward. "Are you all right sir?"

But the hitching breaths only became more pronounced, and Alfred mentally kicked himself. _Of course Bruce wasn't all right. If he was, why would he be laying on the floor in his old playroom?_

He crouched down next to the boy, ignoring the creaking of his old bones, and placed a gentle hand on Bruce's back. He started to open his mouth, preparing to ask if Bruce had hurt himself, but something instinctual stopped him from doing so. Instead, he remained silent, listening to the wind beat against the window.

And he waited, as always, until the low voice addressed him.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

He watched as Bruce's face raised an inch and turned toward him. "I can't…I can't get up. I must have tripped over the doorframe…so dizzy.…and my knee…"

Even in the dim lighting, Alfred could tell that his master's face was reddening by the second, hot with embarrassment and shame at what he would undoubtedly label as weakness.

Alfred nodded, brow furrowing in worry, and moved to stand over Bruce, one hand extended, and surprisingly, Bruce rolled over and took the hand, allowing Alfred to help him unsteadily to his feet.

BRUCE'S POV

The older man eased him carefully down into the antique rocking chair…where his mother had once sat, rocking him to sleep in her lap. It was strange, but the rickety chair had been one of the few unharmed items recovered after the manor had burnt down. In fact, much of the room had survived, so many of its contents were original. He surveyed the room, taking in sights he had not seen in years…out of anywhere in the house, this was one of the rooms he avoided most adamantly. _Too many memories. _

He shut his eyes tightly, trying not to succumb to the pounding in his skull or the unnatural way in which the room was swaying.

So lost was he in his thoughts that he scarcely noticed when Alfred cautiously slipped a hassock under his bad knee for support, nor when Alfred's soft voice barely registered in his mind.

"Everybody falls, sir."

Bruce simply nodded in response, but broke into a violent coughing fit as he waited for Alfred to continue.

"Sir, if you don't mind me asking…what was it that brought you here? You don't often venture into this part of the manor."

Bruce bit the inside of his lip, averting his eyes to a small object that rested in the palm of his hand. His head spun and he clung to the edge of the chair. He had known Alfred would ask eventually.

Slowly he extended his arm, allowing Alfred to take the weathered arrowhead in his hands.

"You remember it, don't you?"

He saw a glimmer of recognition in Alfred's expression, closely followed by a hint of bittersweet nostalgia.

"Of course I remember it, Master Bruce. Miss Dawes and yourself were constantly arguing over which one of you found it." The corners of his mouth raised ever so slightly. "'Finders Keepers,' I believe it was."

Bruce eyes flickered, a shadow passing over his pale face. "Yeah." A moment of silence fell between them. "I…brought the watch to put with it. It's only fitting to keep her memory in this room."

ALFRED'S POV

Alfred nodded. "Indeed, sir. Quite fitting." With that, Bruce moved to set both the watch and the arrowhead in the small trinket box on the mantle. He gave each one last lingering look before limping back to the rocking chair, another coughing fit overtaking him as he sat.

"Are you feeling all right otherwise, sir?" Alfred's brows knitted together and he stepped toward Bruce, laying the back of his hand flat against the boy's forehead, drawing it back quickly when he felt the heat beneath it. "If I'm not mistaken, sir, you're running a fever." He could feel his brow creasing even further when Bruce did not argue, simply shrugged wearily.

"Just tired, Alfred," he sighed. "Nothing to fuss about." He began to cough again.

"And why don't I believe you?"

Supporting the bulk of the younger man's weight, Alfred eased Bruce through the manor's winding passageways, eventually managing to get him into bed. Despite the boy's diligent protests, Alfred tried to persuade him to lie still and wait until a doctor arrived.

"No!" Bruce's eyes snapped up and his head shook vigorously. "No doctors, Alfred! _Please._" The desperation in his voice cut into Alfred's heart and Bruce's breathes became shorter. Alfred cringed, detecting the clear edge of panic in the boy's gasps.

Oh, dear.

It had been a careless thing to say, a reflex even, for Alfred knew that Bruce was terrified of doctors. His father had been a highly skilled physician, but ever since…

Bruce couldn't stand the thought of anyone else tending to him. Hence, even over and above the Batman-secrecy issue, Alfred doubled as Bruce's personal doctor, and had often resorted to his deceased employer's dusty old medical texts, tucked away in a safe that had stood unscathed from the fire.

He moved closer, taking a hesitant seat on the edge of the bed. "Bruce," his throat was tight with emotion, "I'm sorry. No doctors, I promise, but you have to let me help you."

Bruce seemed to calm at this and rested back wordlessly against the pillows, allowing Alfred to take his temperature.

104 degrees.

Alfred's thoughts raced—this was the last thing the two of them needed right now. He knew that being so reclusive and brooding all day wasn't good for the boy's health. No wonder he was ill; Bruce had become a complete shut-in. But this wasn't okay. No. He needed someone to bring proper medicines, to look Bruce over properly…

Lucius.

The trouble would be getting Master Bruce to agree. He shifted his gaze over to the young man on the bed, whose eyes had already drifted shut. Perhaps getting his consent wouldn't be a concern after all.

The phone only rang twice before Lucius picked up.

"Hello, Mr. Fox speaking."

"Lucius? It's Alfred. Listen, I need your utmost discretion…"

"Of course, Alfred, I will admit I'm a little surprised to hear from you, what with Mister Wayne having not getting out much these days."

Alfred sighed. "No, I am afraid he refuses to. Listen, Master Wayne's health is currently not at its best. I know that this is an awfully lot to ask, but is there any way that you might be able to come see him? I'm worried my skills might be surpassed by this one."

On the other side of the line, he could already hear Lucius gathering his things. "I'm of my way Alfred. Tell Mister Wayne not to worry." The line went dead.

Setting down the receiver, Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. Lucius was on his way.


End file.
